


What Else Can I Do?

by masterroadtripper



Series: Telling The Truth [4]
Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Coming Out, Cynthia Murphy Is a Good Mother, Cynthia Murphy Tries, Family Feels, Larry Murphy Tries (Dear Evan Hansen), M/M, Recovery, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, Therapy, Trans Connor Murphy (Dear Evan Hansen), Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:28:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24222076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masterroadtripper/pseuds/masterroadtripper
Summary: Cynthia wanted to throw up the gluten-free bread she’d had for breakfast when the psychologist told her that every morning and every evening, she would have to get her teenage son to strip down to his underwear to prove to her that he had not added any new cuts to his body. Out of everything that she’d have to adjust to and was still working on adjusting to, this was one of the worst.On his first night home from inpatient therapy, Cynthia realized the true extent of just how deeply Connor was hurting before he'd ended up in the hospital.
Relationships: Connor Murphy & Zoe Murphy, Cynthia Murphy/Larry Murphy, Evan Hansen/Connor Murphy
Series: Telling The Truth [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1595260
Comments: 2
Kudos: 62





	What Else Can I Do?

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place just after Racing Towards The Tallest Tree. It is not required to read that one, but it will make this story make a lot more sense
> 
> TWs:  
> \- suicide attempt  
> \- inpatient therapy  
> \- hospitals  
> \- past self-harm

Cynthia wanted to throw up the gluten free bread she’d had for breakfast when the psychologist told her that every morning and every evening, she would have to get her teenage son to strip down to his underwear to prove to her that he had not added any new cuts on his body. Out of everything that she’d have to adjust to and was still working on adjusting to, this was one of the worst.

Connor had never been like his sister. Not really, at least. Sure he played dolls and grew his hair to shoulder length, painted his fingernails and attended dance class. But as he and Zoe grew older, they started growing apart. She didn’t notice it immediately, but after a couple of years, her baby girl was looking more and more like a boy. Which really didn’t bother her, in the beginning. Connor was still, well Connor. When he started refusing to wear dresses and insisted on always tying back his long hair or hiding it under hats, Cynthia had hoped that it was just a passing fad. Something he’d grow out of.

He never did, and then a month ago, he’d told them that he knew he was transgender and wanted to be called Connor. Larry had kicked him out that evening and they’d gotten a phone call from Evan Hansen’s mother just a couple of hours later. The mother of her son’s ex-boyfriend. A nurse. Calling to say that their baby had tried to kill himself, slicing open his wrists. They’d failed him.

They’d stitched up his arm and pumped him so full of antidepressants that Cynthia couldn’t see any light behind his eyes, any of the times that they’d gone to visit him before he’d gone into inpatient. Sitting down with a counsellor, they’d both been dressed down. Either Larry and Cynthia learn to accept their son, or he becomes a ward of the state. Cynthia couldn’t believe it and Larry just looked stunned, the lawyer-gears in his head obviously turning and processing what the doctor said. Realizing that they had been wrong and had, essentially, caused their son to try to kill himself.

They had one month to turn their opinion of their son around while he was stuck in the in-patient treatment program. Zoe had adjusted almost immediately. “I saw it coming,” she said when Larry asked her about it one evening. Cynthia wondered how she and Larry simply hadn’t. They hadn’t wanted to see what was so obviously in front of them.

One month without Connor passed quickly and yet at a snail's pace, all at the same time. It was weird not having him hanging around their house, a shadow in every corner. Though, as much as she hated to admit it, without Connor around, her relationship with Larry had gotten significantly better. She just hoped that when Connor came back, things wouldn’t start going downhill.

The morning that they were releasing him, both her and Larry had arrived at the hospital. Meeting with the doctor that had been looking after Connor for the past month was an experience, to say the least. They were passed over a bag of pills, and instructed to give him the required doses twice a day, followed by requiring him to open his mouth and prove that he had, in fact, swallowed all the pills. Supposedly, it was something Connor fought with a little this past month.

Then, they’d been led to Connor’s room. Sitting on the bed, bag packed at his feet, the first thing that Cynthia noticed was that their son’s hair had been cut short. It shook her a little, seeing her eldest child looking like how he knew he was supposed to look for the first time of his life. She felt guilty, not for the first time this past month. Guilty that they had caused this and that people who didn’t know him were doing a better job at keeping him safe and happy than they were.

“Every morning and evening, you’re going to have to check him for new injuries,” the doctor began to explain, before turning to Connor and asking, “would you prefer it to be your mother or father who gets that job?”

“Mom,” Connor grunted, the first thing he had said since they’d arrived. He’d spent the rest of the time looking at his feet like they were the most interesting thing on the planet.

“Good choice,” the doctor said, her voice praising, “so then your dad gets to do meds, sounds good?”

Connor simply shrugged in response. Cynthia supposed that that was better than nothing.

“So, mom, what you’re going to do, is get Connor to take off his shirt, pants and bracelets and check to make sure that he has remained clean. It has been a month, therefore, any new wounds do need to be reported back to me,” the doctor explained, and that was when Cynthia started feeling nauseous. 

It only got worse when it was time to actually do the first cut check that night after Connor had a shower. Wrapped in a towel, Connor had wandered out of the washroom and across the hall, only to see Cynthia sitting on his bed. She was waiting, psyching herself up for the inevitable. They’d tried to leave Connor’s room as close to how he’d left it, but they did have to remove all his weed and all sharp objects, so not everything was the same and Connor seemed to recognize that.

“I’m sorry honey,” she said, standing from his bed and handing over the pair of underwear and the undershirt that was resting on his bed, “You wanna get changed and then we can do this? Get it over sooner than later?”

“Fine,” Connor said, untucking his arms from his towel wrap. 

It was the first real glimpse of his arms that Cynthia had seen, unbandaged from the hospital visit. Logically, she knew that there were scars littered all over his body, but she didn't truly realize just how many of them there were in total. It hurt to see the evidence of how much her baby was hurting.

Once he had pulled on the underwear and undershirt, he dropped the towel and Cynthia felt horrible. All up his left arm was covered in scars, still healing. Though, the worst part was seeing his legs. Cobwebs of white and pink lines from hip to knee on both legs, wrapped around the sides. No wonder he never wore shorts. Cynthia didn’t realize it. She didn’t realize anything.

Turning around once, so Cynthia could see any angle of him once, he then folded his arms awkwardly over his chest and asked, “satisfied?”

“Yes Connor, thank you,” Cynthia replied, expecting to see him begin to fish around in his drawers for clothes. When he didn’t move, just staring at her, she took a step closer and could see tears forming in his eyes. His eyes, a direct inheritance from her.

“Connor darling, is there something you want to tell me?” Cynthia asked, not daring to move any closer out of fear of spooking him. Instead, she used the technique that his therapist had suggested getting him to talk. Use his name, show him that you care, ask him if he wants to say something. Heaven only knows that he won’t say anything on his own.

“You...um...you used my name,” Connor muttered, not uncrossing his arms from his chest, but looking up at her a little, his newly shortened hair not hiding his facial features any longer.

“Of course I did Connor,” Cynthia replied, stepping closer and folding her son, still significantly taller than her into her arms. Taking a guess. A gamble. Hoping it paid off and he didn’t snap, “of course I did darling.”

Then, she felt his shoulders relax against her and a sob escaped his mouth. Guiding them down to sit on his bed, Cynthia held her son for the first time in a very long time. Crying into her chest, it felt like he was getting rid of years of pent-up emotions all at once. And he’d chosen to show these emotions to her. Instead of running away, getting high or slicing up his skin. She just wished that it hadn’t gotten to this point. That his only way to cry for help was to try to kill himself.

“I love you very much darling,” Cynthia muttered into his hair once the shaking sobs had died down into little hiccups and sniffles, “what do you say that we get you some new clothes soon? Or a replacement for the, uh, I’m not sure what it's called, but what you were wearing under your shirt that night.”

“Binder,” Connor muttered and, while Cynthia wasn’t entirely sure if she had heard him correctly, because, as far as she knew, a binder was something that was considered school supplies. She didn’t ask him to repeat, because that's what the internet was for. Besides, the last thing she wanted was to spook him.

“Guess the paramedics had to cut it off,” Connor muttered into her sweater again, as if finally connecting the dots as to the location of the skin-coloured piece of fabric.

“Yeah, honey. But we can find a new one, okay?” Cynthia said.

“Okay,” Connor replied, obvious that he was done talking and itching to get into some real clothes. He had to be feeling awkward. Cynthia couldn’t even begin to imagine.

“How about this,” she started, “Why don’t you get some pj’s on and come downstairs. I’ll make you some hot chocolate. Sounds good?”

“Yeah, sounds good mom,” Connor replied, before adding on, “thanks, mom.”

“You’re welcome Connor,” she said with a smile before pulling away and heading out the door frame into the hall.

She supposed that was another thing to get used to. Connor not being allowed to have a door. There were lots of things she would have to get used to, and this was one of them. Some, she thought she was getting better at. If Connor’s reaction was any indication, she was at least doing something right. One thing right was better than nothing at all.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) I realize that inpatient therapy is usually closer to 6 months than one, but since this story takes place in the summer between Connor's 11th and 12th grade, it needed to be shorter so he can go back to school in the fall and (re)meet Evan
> 
> 2) This story was more-or-less therapeutic to write, and I promise, that if you are going through a similar situation, you will NOT be stuck there forever and I promise you will make it out. If you have no one else to believe in you, I believe in you and I believe that you WILL make it out and things WILL get better.


End file.
